


Don't beat yourself up (let others do it for you)

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [23]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie's having a rough time ok, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Porn with Feelings, the tried and true formula, working through issues with sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21888478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: By the time Tommy shows up, Alfie has honestly forgotten all about it – or maybe not forgotten, but it’s definitely migrated to the back of his mind and made itself a nice little home there, right next to all the other shite he doesn’t care to think about too much, because there’s honestly no point.In which some people have had an awful day and are trying to deal with it.(This is part of a bigger overall AU, so maybe read some of that first.)
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: The desert is a waste of time [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1310750
Comments: 46
Kudos: 386





	1. Chapter 1

By the time Tommy shows up, Alfie has honestly forgotten all about it – or maybe not forgotten, but it’s definitely migrated to the back of his mind and made itself a nice little home there, right next to all the other shite he doesn’t care to think about too much, because there’s honestly no point. 

But now Tommy’s standing there, staring at him like he’s _offended_ at Alfie’s very presence, which is a bit rich, given the fact that they’re in Alfie’s very own living room.

“Hello, mate,” Alfie says, sarcasm creeping into his voice almost immediately, because he can already tell where this is going and he’s honestly not in the mood. “How very nice of you, yeah, to grace us with your presence on this very fine evening we’re having.”

As if on cue, there’s the sound of thunder, rolling over the continuous, muffled patter of the rain coming down outside. Tommy blinks at him once, almost comically slow, not even listening, and then he says, “The fuck happened to you.”

It’s not a question so much as a request for Alfie to fucking explain himself, which is a bit rich coming from him, Aflie’s not going to lie. 

“You eaten yet?” he says instead; just to be obnoxious and not because he honestly thinks there’s a chance in hell of derailing this conversation. 

“Alfie,” Tommy says, sounding exasperated and like something else that’s a lot harder to decipher.

“S’the name that was given to me,” Alfie agrees easily. Tommy has taken off his cap, but not his overcoat, wet but not completely drenched, and now he’s squaring his shoulders in that way he always does when he’s gearing up for a fight. 

“Is it,” he says, dry as anything. “I had no idea.”

“Didn’t you,” Alfie says and then trails off, suddenly not in the mood to drag this out. He hasn’t come across a mirror in a few hours, but he can’t imagine the whole thing looks _better_ now than it did at the very beginning, because that’s usually not the way these things tend to work. 

“The fuck did you do?” Tommy says again and he does sound honestly irritated now. 

“Me?” Alfie says, looking around the room curiously, just for show. “Well, I’ve just been sat here, haven’t I, reading this book, just thinkin’ to myself, right, contemplatin’ the fleetingness of life and such…” He holds up the book for emphasis. “Pondering the question of how exactly one _does_ get murdered by an orangutan, right, you know how it goes. In all honesty, mate, it looks worse than it is.”

Which is a blatant guess on his part. The pain has dulled down to a muted throb at this point, at least as long as he doesn’t actually think about it. The bruises on his face have probably gone as dark as they’re going to get, but the split lip has closed up very nicely by now and he’s been heroically resisting the urge to prod at it with his tongue for the last few hours, so. He figures that should count for something. 

“You even own a razor?” Tommy says, alluding to the story Alfie’s just alluded to. “Because if not, you’re probably safe on that front.”

Alfie’s well aware he’s being looked over sharply, Tommy taking in everything there might be to see; he _has_ to notice the fact that Alfie’s knuckles are split and that the skin around his wrists is scraped raw. (Alfie ignores the sudden urge to pull his sleeves down, because seriously, _what the fuck.)_

“What I _do_ have though, mate,” he says instead. “Yeah? Is a fuckin’ chimney, don’t I, so it’d probably be a suicidal idea, right, a _very_ suicidal idea to let my guard down just yet, yeah? Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tommy hasn’t even seen the worst of the bruising yet, Alfie thinks morosely, because that’s still hidden underneath Alfie's clothes. If this is dampening Alfie's chances of getting laid, he’s going to _search_ for that fucking barrel and murder that cunt all over again. 

“Anything broken?” Tommy says unexpectedly, very businesslike all of a sudden, thank fuck, and finally starts unbuttoning his coat. 

“Naahh,” Alfie says, which is true, at least. 

“Ribs?” Tommy says and he’s not even looking at him anymore, which should be rude, but feels like relief instead. “Any fingers?”

“Now, what the fuck you think those are for, mate, hm?” Alfie says, demonstratively holding up one of his hands to show off his rings, and can’t resist waggling his fingers while he’s at it. “Think they’re purely decorative? Yeah?”

Tommy _almost_ smiles at that, a tiny, blink and you might miss it-grin, before he asks, “Anything cracked?” because of course, Alfie thinks, always has to check _all_ of the fucking boxes, doesn’t he.

“Skull,” he says. “Except, well, not mine. You know how it is, mate yeah? Some people, they’re just very fragile, aren’t they.”

“You seen a doctor?” Tommy says and this time, he doesn’t even wait for an answer before he disappears back into the hallway, presumably to hang up his wet overcoat. _(After_ he’s been dripping all over the carpet for minutes on end, but fine, Alfie’s not going to split hairs right now. If he’s survived this fucking day, his floor might survive a bit of water.) He gets up with a grunt, for the first time in almost two hours, and decides that yeah, he’s feeling sore, but overall, it’s manageable. Not like he’s never done this song and dance before, after all. 

Follows Tommy out of the room and finds him studiously hanging up his things next to the front door. 

“I did, yeah.”

“What did _he_ say?”

“Nothing much. Congratulated me actually, didn’t he, on being hung like a horse.”

“That a fact,” Tommy says, deadpan and turns around with his hands shoved into his pockets. He’s looking impeccable as always, the only concession to the fact that he’s done for the day the slightly loosened knot in his tie. “Should recommend you a doctor with better eyesight, eh? If you’re interested. Can’t be safe, practicing medicine blind like that.” 

“Ohh, is _that_ a fact?” Alfie parrots back at him, drawing closer. Tommy stays where he is, but he's turning towards him, tipping his chin up just a bit, like a challenge. “You under the impression this is polite conversation, mate? Hmm? Barging in here, right, middle of the night no less, mouthing off?”

"It's _eight,"_ Tommy says mildly, which is as far as he gets, because Alfie wraps a hand around the back of his neck, thumb tucking itself behind his ear, and kisses him – a lot more carefully than he’d like, split lip and all that, but still. Tommy makes a small, satisfied sound and stays put for a blessed five seconds, before he pulls back, looking as alert as ever. Alfie resists the urge to sigh.

“C’mon,” he says. “Gonna have some tea at the very least.”

“...right,” Tommy says, with the air of somebody graciously agreeing to visit their most tedious relatives and not a person who, in all likelihood, is going to tuck into dinner like they haven’t seen an ounce of food in weeks. 

They end up eating in the living room. Tommy is clearly expecting some more information on the whole thing, but seems content to just eat his meat pie and argue about Poe for now. 

“All I’m saying,” Alfie says. “All I’m saying is, who the fuck, right, who the fuck even lives on _mortuary_ street anyway, hmm, of their own free will and choosing? You ask me, mate, that’s asking for disaster.”

“Clearly their own fault,” Tommy agrees very seriously. He’s unabashedly chewing at the same time, because he has no manners at all, once he really lets his guard down, and also doesn’t mention the fact that _morgue_ has other meanings as well, even though he probably knows. 

(Alfie’s honestly not sure how good Tommy's French is, but it's probably on par with Alfie's own, meaning that one cannot keep almost dying in a fucking country for months on end without picking up at least _some_ of the words.)

“Well, yeah” Alfie says. “Could always choose not to get murdered, mate, right, couldn't you.”

Tommy looks way too amused at that, considering their line of work, and the war, and probably all the other _unpleasant_ situations they’ve found themselves in over the course of their lives. Or maybe that’s exactly what makes it funny, Alfie thinks. Who knows. The human brain works in strange ways in that regard, or maybe that’s just him. 

“That what happened today?” Tommy says offhandedly, helping himself to another slice, being about as subtle as a left hook to the face. 

“Sure,” Alfie says easily. “Absolutely, yeah. The great and mysterious universe, right, looked down upon me today, didn’t it, and it asked me: Alfie, d’you wanna fuckin’ croak in the most pathetic assassination attempt anybody’s ever seen on this side of the pond?” He gestures with one arm through the air for dramatic purposes, like he’s indicating the night sky, or maybe the ceiling above their heads. “And take your time, right, ‘cause this is a very substantial decision.”

Tommy’s all ears now, despite the fact he’s seemingly fixated on dissecting the food on his plate with surgical precision, Alfie can fucking tell. Outside the rain is still coming down. 

“And I said… _well,_ I said, thank you for the fuckin' consideration, right, very honored and all that, but now that I think about it? Yeah? I _would_ prefer not to be shot in the head by a fucking imbecile, right, because honestly, mate, who fuckin’ would? S’an embarrassing way to go, innit.”

Tommy makes a non-committal noise, watching him carefully now, head tilted sideways, with his face carefully blank. 

"And after all of that," Alfie says and for whatever reason, _this_ feels like the embarrassing part, even though he couldn’t even explain why. It’s weirdly difficult to even say it out loud, which is a feeling Alfie’s not familiar with at _all,_ and on top of that, it’s also pointless to leave it out, not least because the arrest is one of the few details Tommy is undoubtedly going to unearth tomorrow, once he’ll inevitably start doing his own research. 

“Well. Got arrested, didn’t I," Alfie says and it feels like ripping off the dressing for a wound for some reason, one that is stuck to the skin with dried blood; fucking unpleasant and disgusting, and afterwards it’s oozing some kind of liquid that nobody wants to see. What’s worse is that now he feels like an idiot, which makes him itch with a familiar, restless anger. 

Tommy doesn’t even look surprised at the revelation, Alfie registers bitterly, because he probably guessed that one from the marks on Alfie’s wrists already. 

“For bodily harm?” Tommy suggests calmly, fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket and Alfie shrugs and says, “Nahhh, mate… I had to guess, being a Jew and a fuckin’ nuisance in public, probably.” 

“You know by who?” Tommy says very casually. He’s craning his neck with a cigarette already in his mouth, looking for the usual ashtray. Alfie reaches out behind himself without looking, to the lowest shelf of the nearest bookcase, and puts the thing between them on the couch table.

“Ohhh yeah, mate,” he says. “Yeah, ‘course, swapped names and tea preferences and everything, didn’t we. S’fine anyway, yeah, they let me out again after an hour.”

As a matter of fact, he does know the police officer’s name by now. Knows his address, too, and the address of his favorite pub, and the address of the church his wife goes to, and the name of the church group she volunteers at, but none of that is any of Tommy Shelby’s fucking business, now is it. 

(It occurs to Alfie that maybe he ought to be giving Ollie a call at some point in the evening. The lad is usually a lot more stable than he looks, isn’t he, but he did have to shoot somebody in the chest today, so… yeah, Alfie thinks, maybe he’ll do that later.)

Tommy has lit his cigarette and is smoking with his usual, absent-minded demeanor, and _as usual_ he looks like some kind of painting come to life while doing it. He’s not saying anything, which doesn’t bode well at all. Alfie wants to tell him to mind his own fucking affairs and stay out of Alfie’s while he’s at it, but he can’t do that, because that would imply that he gives a fuck in the first place.

He scrubs a hand over his beard and says, “You gonna finish that?” instead, pointing at Tommy’s half empty plate, full of bits and pieces of destroyed pie. Tommy shakes his head no, and hands over his plate without a word.

Alfie considers using Tommy’s fork, and then demonstratively picks his own back up, which makes Tommy roll his eyes, before he tips his head back and slowly blows smoke towards the ceiling. They drop the subject after that. 

Alfie does manage his phone call, later on, with his office door carefully closed. Ollie insists that he’s fine multiple times, despite the fact that Alfie doesn’t really make any inquires in that direction, but, well. Why the fuck else would he be calling at this hour, without anything business-related to talk about. 

When he gets back into the living room, Tommy has taken over the entirety of the couch and is surrounded by papers, all of them painstakingly turned over so Alfie won’t be able to read anything, not even by accident. Tommy even has the nerve to hold his ledger a bit higher, once Alfie enters the room. 

“Yeah, mate,” Alfie says sarcastically. “That made all the difference, didn’t it.” 

His book is on the table now – closed and with some random piece of paper sticking out of it to mark the page, because Alfie initially left it turned over on the couch. 

“Fuckin’ stay over there,” Tommy tells him. “Ten more minutes.”

“You know,” Alfie says, settling down into the free armchair with a sigh (has to step over Cyril in order to do so, since he’s curled up on the carpet, fast asleep) and picks up his book again. “Here I was, right, going about my day under the humble, yeah, the _humble_ impression that this is my place of habitation and all, but apparently not, hmmm? What’re you doin’ anyway?” 

“Gonna get a house,” Tommy murmurs, cigarette between his teeth, because he’s holding onto the ledger with one hand and rifling through some of the papers with the other, clearly looking for something.

“Right, because you’re sorely lacking in that regard, aren’t you,” Alfie says, eyeing the papers with newfound interest. Might be _research_ instead of anything official, he thinks, which immediately makes the whole thing about ten times more interesting. “Half of London not enough for you, mate?”

“Country house,” Tommy says absentmindedly, and then he looks up, seemingly annoyed, like he just caught himself in the act. Alfie suppresses a grin and innocently opens his book. 

“Caravan not big enough anymore, yeah?” he says and Tommy snorts and says, “Can you occupy yourself for ten more minutes or do I have get you something shiny?”

“Well,” Alfie muses. “As a matter of fact I wouldn’t object, right, if you did feel the need to-”

“If you shut up,” Tommy says, looking at him with his head tilted sideways, eyes dark and calculating. “We can go to bed right after.”

“Oh, _fuck off,”_ Alfie mutters, offended, but of course – that did the trick and they both know it. “M’not that easy, yeah.”

“‘Course not,” Tommy says, attention back on his papers already, but there’s a self-satisfied expression on his fucking face that Alfie should find irritating, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to care.

Ten minutes turn out to be a lie, which is fine, because Alfie already expected as much. He’s content to just sink into his chair, browsing his book. At some point, Cyril wakes up and spots him sitting there, so he pads over and drops on top of Alfie’s feet with a satisfied huff. 

“Yeah, yeah, there we go, hmm,” Alfie mutters nonsensically, and scratches the top of Cyril’s head. 

Tommy stays completely immersed, brow furrowed in concentration and what is probably chagrin as well, for the time it takes him to smoke two more cigarettes. Then he takes a deep breath and exhales it with a sigh, and then he starts packing everything back up again.

“Could just leave it,” Alfie says innocently, because he’d love to get a quick look at whatever it is Tommy is plotting right now, he’s not going to lie. (Or well, he _is_ going to lie, at least if asked outright, but honestly… if anybody was dumb enough to believe him, then that’s on them, Alfie thinks, and decidedly not his fault.)

“Could just go fuck yourself,” Tommy says, unmoved, because he is _not_ that dumb most of the time. It’s one of his better qualities, even if it’s one of the more irritating ones as well. 

The evening progresses quite nicely from there, at least until they’re in the bedroom and Alfie’s shirt comes off. He’s still wearing his undershirt, but the top buttons are undone, so it’s hanging open, and well, the bruising must be dark enough to be noticeable, because Tommy stops what he’s doing (namely, hanging up his fucking suit, so it’s still pristine in the morning) for a single, very telling second and blinks at him, before he catches himself and acts like he hasn’t noticed anything.

Just for that, Alfie thinks, weirdly annoyed by a reaction he was expecting anyway, the fucking undershirt is going to stay on. He’s not here to be gawked at or fussed over. Not that Tommy ever actually _would,_ thank fuck, but still. 

Except Tommy sidles up to him then, with that weirdly lithe step he has whenever he’s not actually stomping around with his shoulders squared, trying to appear intimidating to the world at large; moves right into Alfie’s personal space until they’re toe to toe. He’s still wearing his pants, though the braces have come off, and he’s down to his undershirt as well. 

Alfie makes an irritated noise, lets it rumble through his chest, and narrows his eyes at him.

“What?” Tommy asks, like he doesn’t fucking realize what this is about. Alfie makes another disgruntled sound and then kisses him, because first off all, Tommy’s mouth is right there, isn't it, and second of all, Alfie’s really not in the mood to have a discussion about this, even if it's just a flippant one. Tommy takes a deep breath and kisses him back, pressing close, heedless the bruises on Alfie’s chest, which makes the whole situation a bit better somehow. 

“S’long as this isn’t gonna compromise your performance, eh?” Tommy mutters eventually, fingers curling into the fabric of Alfie’s undershirt, right over his heart, and Alfie can’t help but snort with amusement, caught entirely off guard. 

“That what you’re worried about?” he says and wraps an arm around Tommy’s lower back, pulling him close. “Yeah? That’s what’s troubling that pretty little head of yours? Hmm? ‘Cause in that case I, right, I _do_ have to bloody commend your priorities, mate, I have to admit.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy says, scowling at him, undoubtedly because of the phrase _pretty little head,_ but not only does he stay put, he lets Alfie kiss him again, mouth opening to his tongue easy as anything. 

“How bad,” he murmurs eventually, and Alfie says “S’nothing, not bad at all,” which is a fucking lie, but they’re gravitating towards the bed now, so really, who even cares?

Not Alfie, that’s who, at least until Tommy starts tugging at his undershirt, gentle but insistent, and Alfie has to take his hands and pull them away. Tommy makes a protesting noise, so Alfie has to go for his fly, to get those pants off him, except then suddenly Tommy is gripping _his_ wrists, to stop Alfie from getting on with it.

Alfie sighs dramatically and leaves his hands where they are, but keeps still, waiting for a reaction.

“Quid pro quo,” Tommy says, staring at Alfie with his blue, blue eyes, way too close to resist anything at all. 

“Sorry, mate, don’t speak French,” Alfie says, which _almost_ earns him a smile, slight twitch of the corner of Tommy’s mouth.

“Take your fuckin’ shirt off.”

“Sorry, mate,” Alfie says again, apologetic. “M’afraid I don’t understand English either.”

Tommy exhales through his nose, clearly amused, and sways into him, fitting their mouths together again. His hands ends up on Alfie’s hips and then he’s pushing the undershirt up and over Alfie’s head. Alfie lets him this time, even though he still can’t stop himself from muttering “there, you bloody happy now-” into the kiss, just to keep up appearances. 

They settle down on the bed, Alfie scooting backwards until there’s enough space to lie down. He doesn’t want to look down and inspect himself, because what the fuck use would that be, really, it’s not like he can change anything now; and tries to watch Tommy’s reaction instead. Which would be a lot easier if there actually was one, but Tommy’s guarded now, at least a bit, and doesn’t let anything show on his face.

He’s clearly cataloguing the damage in his head, while he’s taking his own undershirt and pants off without looking, but his expression doesn’t give anything away.

“So,” Alfie says. “What’s the verdict, hmm? I’m gonna survive the night or not?”

“Probably not,” Tommy says, dry as the desert, even as puts a knee onto the mattress and starts to move towards him. “Probably should update your will right now, eh? Leave everything to me.”

He swings a leg over Alfie’s torso and straddles him, an easy, familiar maneuver. Alfie stares up at him. The only source of light is the lamp on the desk, a soft, golden glow that leaves half of his face in the shadows. If Alfie were just by himself, he’d have turned it off before lying down, but since Tommy never, ever seems to fall asleep at a reasonable hour, it’s become a habit to keep it on. It’s the least disruptive option by far; and most nights, Alfie will easily fall asleep regardless.

“I mean,” Tommy says, deceptively innocent “If you feel like you’re at death’s door...?” 

“Hmmmm,” Alfie says, somewhere between a noise and an exhale, and puts his hands just above Tommy’s knees, before sliding them up until he reaches his hips. “What’s that got to do with anything, mate?”

Tommy smirks and doesn’t quite rock against him, just… makes himself heavier, sinks down a bit more. Wraps his fingers around Alfie’s underarms, just holding on, before one of his hands pulls Alfie’s right arm away for examination. The skin around Alfie's wrist is a dark purplish-blue by now, where it's not scraped raw, and probably feels warm to the touch, because Tommy’s thumb is soothingly cool when he rubs over it. (But then again, that might just be because he always has cold hands.) He looks like he’s personally offended by the sight, mouth curling a bit in disgust. Alfie’s not quite sure what to feel about any of this, so he decides to be irritated. 

“What’s this about, then,” he says, on the verge of pulling his arm away. “You jealous, mate?” 

Which is a nonsensical thing to say on a conversational level, or any level really, but Tommy is staring at Alfie’s messed up wrist and split knuckles with an unreadable expression on his face and Alfie needs him to… _stop._ Stop and preferably do anything else, like starting to plan for world domination or fall off the bed or something. 

Tommy looks up sharply and then he says, short and clipped, “Yeah. Always wanted to handcuff you. Thought you’d never catch on.”

And the thing is… he’s very clearly not serious about it. From the tone of his voice to the expression on his face, everything practically screams _sarcasm._ Except Alfie’s brain doesn’t seem to fucking care, does it, because all of a sudden, like an unexpected roof tile to the head, there’s a strange buzzing filling his ears, accompanied by a single, scandalous thought.

Something must be showing on his face (which is just as well, because he’s too busy processing to actually say anything), because Tommy is blinking down at him almost skeptically, the way he always does when he’s not sure what Alfie is going to say next, but he already knows it’s going to be something ridiculous. His still holding onto Alfie’s underarm, fingers loosely curled around it like an afterthought.

“That so?” Alfie finally manages. His voice sounds normal to his own ears, but that might be wishful thinking.

 _“Yes,”_ Tommy says with a roll of his eyes, meaning “no”. If anything, he sounds even more sarcastic. 

“Well, mate,” Alfie says, and then hesitates and then decides, _fuck it._ It’s been a long bloody day. Worst case scenario, Tommy is going to think he’s gone insane, which first of all, who’s to say he hasn’t, people have been reiterating that very fact for literal years at this point, haven’t they, and second of all, even if he has, it probably won’t be enough to send Tommy running for the hills, if past experience is anything to go by. 

“If that’s been a lifelong dream of yours, mate, right – then you absolutely fuckin’ should.”

“What,” Tommy says, flat and unamused, because he clearly thinks Alfie is taking the piss. Which is fair enough, Alfie supposes, except he’s being completely serious, all of a sudden. It’s one of those gut instincts that manage to surprise even himself from time to time, but he’s learned to just go with them, because they very rarely lead him astray.

They might not always make sense to him, right from the very get go, but he figures that’s no reason not to go with them, now is it. 

“You should,” Alfie repeats, and Tommy says, “You _do_ realize I was kidding about the lifelong-” and Alfie has to roll his eyes at that, because _yeah, you don't fucking say._

“Yeah,” he says. “Thank you, mate, for that absolutely essential contribution, yeah, ‘cause I had no idea.”

There is a long moment of hesitant silence. 

“You’re serious,” Tommy says then and it’s not a question anymore.

“I am, mate, yeah,” Alfie says easily. “Does tend to happen from time to time, don’t it, like the sun making it through that cloud from hell you people up in Birmingham like to call _air_ every other year or so.”

Tommy ignores the insult – doesn’t just _not react,_ but ignores it completely – because he’s clearly mulling the idea over in his head. 

“You don’t have handcuffs,” he says, and this time around, if you listen closely (which Alfie always, _always_ does) there’s half a question in there. So Alfie has to stare back up at him with an innocent expression long enough to see Tommy starting to consider the possibility that Alfie actually fucking _might,_ before he starts to grin because he just can’t help himself. Gives the bluff away immediately, of course, and Tommy rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, muttering something that sounds a lot like “oh, fuck off!”

“Nahh, I don’t,” Alfie admits and then adds, because he’s already thought everything through and it does seem to make perfect sense in his head, “Use that fuckin’ tie of yours then, hmm? That thing’s gotta be useful for _something_ at some point, don’t it.”

Tommy looks vaguely offended at that, but he doesn’t say anything; just keeps looking at Alfie with narrowed eyes, like he’s trying to read him, figure something out. Alfie keeps his face carefully blank, eyebrows raised a bit, the very picture of a goodnatured challenge. 

“I tie you up,” Tommy says and Alfie can’t help but interrupt, says “Quite _literally,_ it just occurs to me, right, because you’d be using your _tie-”_ and Tommy basically throws his own arm back at him so it hits Alfie’s own chest, saying “shut _up,_ Christ” in that tone of voice he always uses when he’s _trying_ not find something funny.

“I tie you up,” he says again and Alfie nods along in agreement. “Isn’t that going to… I mean, your wrists already are…” 

He trails off after that, probably because something has shifted on Alfie’s face again, which… yeah, Alfie can feel himself going kind of numb and also weirdly angry all of a sudden, even though he doesn’t really know why. 

“Who even _gives a fuck,_ mate” he says, low and way too furious for the type of conversation they’re currently having, but what the fuck is he supposed to? He doesn’t understand it either. “Hmm? S’my fuckin’ skin, innit. My arms an’ everything, yeah? We in agreement on that?”

Tommy just shrugs, profoundly unimpressed by the outburst, thank fuck. 

“Yeah,” he says, before he rolls his hips, once, as if to emphasize the fact that he’s basically sitting on top Alfie right now, and then adds, slyly, “Does that mean you want me to leave you to it?” 

“Fuck off,” Alfie says, mollified almost against his will. “Go get your tie.”

Tommy takes a deep breath, looks him over once more with an expression on his face that Alfie honestly doesn’t fucking care to interpret one bit and then he’s come to a decision it seems, because he climbs off of Alfie’s thighs and then off the bed, and goes to fetch his tie. 

“Right,” he says, once he’s back to straddling Alfie’s lap again and holds it up. “Will that be sufficient?”

“Depends, doesn’t it,” Alfie says. “On what you’re fuckin’ gonna do with it, right.”

Tommy makes a noise that sounds like agreement and slings the open tie around his neck, letting it hang open. It looks… attractive as all hell, Alfie thinks, even apart from all the obvious reasons, which could be easily summarized under the term _general physical appearance,_ but the fact that he’s only in his underwear makes the addition of the tie (wine red and with some kind of textured pattern, the deep contrast making his skin seem even more translucent) look fucking indecent. 

Alfie’s honestly not sure what he expected, mainly because it didn’t even occur to him to expect anything, so the swift, businesslike demeanor comes as a surprise, although it probably shouldn’t. Tommy Shelby knows how to roll with the punches, literally and figuratively speaking. It makes Alfie feel weirdly grateful all of a sudden, which is another emotion that can go fuck itself, because he’s decidedly not in the mood to deal with it right now.

“Arm,” Tommy says. Doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask if it’s all right or if Alfie is really sure about this; just holds out his own hand, palm up, for Alfie to place his wrist into it. 

“Here you go,” Alfie says easily, like he’s handing Tommy the salt at the dinner table, and hands over his, well, _hand._ Tommy inspects it once again, turning it this way and that, except he’s blessedly detached about it this time, like he’s looking at something he might consider buying at a store. Then he lets himself fall forward, tugging Alfie’s arm with him, and presses Alfie’s wrist into the mattress above his head. 

“Well, hello there,” Alfie says, amused. Tommy’s face is much closer now, hovering over him, close enough to count his eyelashes, if Alfie were so inclined, tie dangling from his neck and pooling on Alfie’s chest. 

“Other arm,” Tommy says 

“Have to tell you, mate, “ Alfie says, even as he dutifully pushes his other arm above his head. “If I, right, if I had known I was gonna have to do everything by myself around here-”

“You’d have found something else to complain about,” Tommy says, unimpressed. 

He puts his other hand around Alfie’s other wrist without any real weight behind it, more of a suggestion than anything else. The movement brings him even closer, practically flush against Alfie now, a warm and familiar weight, and Alfie just _has_ to lift his head up and catch Tommy’s mouth. Tommy kisses him back carefully, tightening his grip immediately, fingers digging into the sore skin of Alfie’s wrists. The resulting sting makes a strange wave of arousal roll through him that seems completely foreign. 

Then Tommy pulls off, lifting his head up to inspect the headboard, and Alfie can’t help himself, licks a stripe over the long line of Tommy’s neck before he puts his mouth right against his pulse point.

Tommy exhales noisily and then he murmurs, “right” and pulls the tie from his neck, fabric whispering over his shoulder as it moves. Alfie keeps mouthing at his neck, gently biting at his jaw, profoundly uninterested in whatever is happening to his hands, even as he can feel Tommy wrap the tie around his wrists, first left, then pause (probably Tommy threading the thing through he headboard, Alfie thinks, but he still can’t be bothered to check), then right. 

“Stop it,” Tommy tells him when Alfie starts sucking a mark into the skin above his collarbone, even though Alfie can feel him half-hard against the side of his ribcage by now, so what is the truth here, really? 

“Nahh,” Alfie says and then he hisses in surprise and pain, because all of a sudden Tommy’s tightened the knot, or maybe knots, plural, Alfie has no fucking idea; when Alfie actually looks up at him, he’s pulling at the material with one hand and a satisfied expression. 

“Try,” Tommy says, short and to the point, not quite an order, but close.

So Alfie does.

He’s sceptical for about a second, because while it feels tight (tight enough to hurt, just a bit, fabric digging into bruised skin), it’s not tight enough to really affect his blood flow (Alfie can _tell_ these things after all) and his arms don’t feel restricted either – but that’s a miscalculation on his part, he realizes that instantly, because the only reason for that impression is the fact that he’s got his arms already _up._ When he tries to pull them down, there’s almost no give at all, no leeway in any direction; not even by pushing his arms further up, because then the headboard is in the way almost immediately.

“What the _fuck,”_ he says involuntarily, weirdly impressed by this outcome. 

Tommy smirks at him, looking almost proud, which has no business being _endearing_ of all things, but well, there you fucking go. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Alfie says, fascinated, still testing his bounds, despite the fact he can feel the burn on his skin already. “Where’d you learn that, then? Hmm? You got that from your horses?”

Tommy blinks at him, like he has to force himself to pay attention, seemingly distracted by Alfie’s attempts to free himself, eyes glued to what might be Alfie’s arms. Honestly, it’s hard to tell. 

“Boats,” he says then. “Not horses.”

Which… Alfie should’ve seen that coming, really, what with all the vagabonding and river nonsense and such. He stops moving for now, a strangely satisfied feeling settling down in the pit of his stomach, and then there’s a long moment of them just… looking at each other silently. 

Well, Alfie thinks, there they are. It’s strange, because he feels like he should do something – get the show rolling, get this ball on the road, _something_ – but the initial momentum is gone, and it seems like they’re both waiting for some sort of cue. 

"C’mere," he murmurs finally and Tommy slowly sinks down onto his elbows, until they're face to face again. Alfie kisses him, short and sweet, like some kind of reassurance; even though he couldn't even say which one of them might need it. 

“You know what I think, mate?” he says then. “I think, right, that you should really, _really_ get rid of that bloody thing as well.”

Tommy straightens up a bit and looks down between them as if surprised, like he’s seeing his own underwear for the first time. 

“That one?”

“Yeahhh,” Alfie says, drawing it out. “That one.”

Tommy tips forward and catches Alfie’s mouth again; starting to grind down against him now, slow and very deliberate. 

“No,” he says then, right against Alfie’s mouth, and Alfie repeats, “No?” as if to clarify – and the thing is, it would be a threat, usually, _change your mind or there will be some consequences,_ but it isn’t a threat _now,_ because, well, there are no fucking consequences. What the fuck is Alfie going to do about it, scowl at him? 

“No,” Tommy says again, easy as anything, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, and then he kisses him, deep and hungry, letting Alfie have his mouth without protest. 

And _fuck,_ but Alfie can feel him, even through the fabric, hard and insistent against his own hip, and for whatever reason, that thought really hammers it home: Tommy is on top of him, fucking beautiful as ever, pressed close enough to feel _everything,_ close enough to smell him and kiss him, and make him shudder by sliding a tongue into his mouth, but other than that, Alfie can’t do _anything_ about it. Nothing at all. 

Can’t touch him, can’t undress him, can’t hold him down or make him stay put, can’t make him arch his back and whine and come. For whatever fucking reason, it suddenly makes Alfie run so hot he feels like the blood is boiling in his veins. He catches Tommy’s lower lip and bites down hard, rolling it between his teeth until Tommy makes a pained sound and pulls away. 

“Take it off,” Alfie says again and there’s no irony to it this time, no give to his voice, and this is it, moment of truth. 

Tommy blinks at him for a long second, like he's waiting for some invisible clock to run out and then he _grins._ And _fuck,_ Alfie things, fuck it all to hell, he is _lovely,_ this should be fucking illegal, people shouldn’t be walking around the earth looking like that. Tommy’s straightening up now, weight distributed between his knees and Alfie’s pelvis, and _God,_ he’s sitting on Alfie’s cock, wedged between the back of his thigh and Alfie’s stomach, and it feels like a fucking _dream._

“Heard you the first time,” Tommy says and then he puts one hand on Alfie’s chest for balance, fingers splaying wide, and puts the other one low on his own stomach. When he starts sliding it inside his underwear, Alfie makes _some_ type of noise. He feels like his skin is on fire, heart pounding, everything already damp with sweat. Tommy’s breath hitches on the next inhale and now he’s touching himself, Alfie knows he does, it’s fucking _obvious,_ hand moving underneath the fabric, telltale flush starting to creep down his neck, mouth falling open just a bit.

Alfie couldn’t look away if he fucking _tried._

He's a coiled spring, vibrating with tension. Fuck, but he wants to touch, wants to put his hands all over Tommy, wants to fucking _ruin_ him, and he can’t. He can't do _anything._ His wrists are screaming at him by now, because he keeps twisting his arms around, keeps _forgetting_ he can't actually move them anywhere; but it's an unimportant kind of pain, stuck somewhere in the back of his mind, tangential at best. 

“Did you now,” he manages hoarsely. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Yeah, I did.” 

He sounds breathless, like he can’t quite believe he’s getting away with this, and for whatever reason, Alfie feels the exact same. It should be worrying, probably, or throw him for a loop at the very least, but in all honesty, he’s too turned on to care.

“What do you want?”

“Why,” Alfie says. “You're gonna start listening to me all of a sudden? Hm? Is that it?”

“Ohh no,” Tommy says mildly, clearly getting bolder now. “No, I just want to _know.”_

And fuck. _Fuck,_ Alfie thinks, arousal shivering through him, he’d fuck him through the _bed_ if he could. Just… hold him down and make him take it, because it’s what they both deserve. He takes a deep breath through his nose, feels his chest expanding with it, trying to calm down a bit, because… well. 

Clearly, that’s not what’s going to happen here at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Tell you what,” Tommy says, still moving his hand, still touching himself. There’s some color to his face now, high on his cheeks, eyes as blue as a glacier. “You let me know what you want. Eh? And I might… _might_ take this off.”

“Ohhh no,” Alfie says. “You, yeah, you either stick to your fuckin’ word, mate, or no deal. Not accepting any _maybes_ here, right.”

Tommy looks strangely delighted, like he was hoping Alfie was going to say that, and then he does a casual little shrug, and says, “Right. No deal then.”

Alfie blinks at him, honestly taken aback, because usually, Tommy’s at least somewhat susceptible to some good, old negotiation, even when he’s being difficult about something – _especially_ when he’s being difficult about something, actually – but not today, apparently. It makes Alfie feel… _some_ type of way, trying to grind his cock against Tommy’s weight just a little, because… _fuck._ If Tommy is just going to shoot him down right away, what other options does he have left, really? 

He’s moving in time with Alfie now, consciously or not, and even _that_ feels amazing, the two of them rocking together; despite the fact it’s barely anything and probably not doing much for Tommy either, because he’s clearly taken himself in hand, stroking his own cock inside his underwear. Still, he’s putting on a fucking _show –_ biting at his lower lip and letting his eyes flutter shut, digging his fingers into Alfie’s chest, where he’s still bracing himself with one hand.

“Fuckin’ _hell,”_ Alfie says hoarsely, when Tommy licks his lower lip again, pink flick of his tongue, there and gone again immediately. “Could put that mouth to much better use, yeah?”

“That what you want?” Tommy says, tilting his head.

“Fuck off,” Alfie says before he’s even made the decision to do so.

 _“Hnnh,”_ Tommy says, small sound full of pleasure and rocks into his own hand, a lot more forceful than before. “F-fine by me.”

And he’s- that fucking _bastard,_ Alfie thinks, full of desperate anger and admiration at the same time, he put that fucking stutter in there on purpose, and they both know it. And it shouldn’t be a big fucking deal, him having to say it out loud, because… he says shite like that all of the time, doesn’t he. Has specifically _told_ Tommy to suck him off before, even more than once, but for whatever reason, it feels different now _–_ like he’s having to _work_ for it instead of giving orders, even though Tommy’s not really asking him to do anything.

“Yeah,” he manages, trying not to sound sullen about it and failing spectacularly. “Yeah, I… that’s, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck you, _yes._ You need me to put it down in writing? Hm? ‘Cause I’m telling you mate, that’s gonna be a bit dif-” and then he has to stop talking, because Tommy has slithered down and is licking at the crease of Alfie’s thigh, fingers of one hand digging into the back of it, pushing it up until Alfie’s got his foot properly planted on the mattress; opening him up for better access. Alfie can’t even bring himself to look, feeling himself flush with anticipation, heartbeat hammering in his throat. Swallows hard at the first gust of air ghosting over his stomach and then he inhales sharply at the first stripe Tommy licks up his cock, wet and burning hot, because naturally, he didn’t see it coming at all, staring at the ceiling as he is.

It’s familiar as well, for all that it makes Alfie’s heart kick into overdrive immediately, because Tommy does this a lot, getting everything nice and wet with broad, precise licks (partly to work up his courage, Alfie suspects, because sucking cock always seems to be a bit intimidating at first), before he actually takes Alfie into his mouth. Except this time around, Tommy just keeps going. And going. 

And fucking _going._

Alfie is twitching his hips in no time, can’t even help himself, trying to get him to do _more_ without words, which… well. It’s not like they have a fucking misunderstanding on their hands, Alfie thinks with what might be a touch of gallows humor, it’s not like Tommy doesn’t know _exactly_ what he is doing. 

It keeps going on for what seems half an eternity; the soft, wet noises of Tommy lapping at him and Alfie’s harsh breathing the only sounds filling the room. He’s not going to stop, Alfie realizes eventually, with a strange mix of arousal, panic and something that feels weirdly like pride, at least not left to his own devices. 

“You lost, mate?” he manages and it doesn’t come out half as self-assured as he wanted it to, but fuck it, he’s going with it now. “Need some instructions on what to do down there, hmm?”

Tommy actually lifts his head at the question, and then he puts his free hand on Alfie’s thigh and rests his chin on top of it, looking completely unfazed. Or, well, not completely unfazed, because his mouth is red and shiny with spit and there’s a flush high on his cheeks. He looks good enough to fucking eat, but that isn’t news at this point, because he _always_ looks like that. 

“Not really,” he says. “You’re the one that didn’t want a deal.”

“S’not what I said,” Alfie says immediately, sounding petulant to his own ears. “S’not what I… if I remember correctly, yeah mate, if I do recall, what I actually said, right, was that we’re not gonna do _maybes_ this evening, didn’t I, because really, what’s the point in-”

“Yeah, see, I don't fuckin' care,” Tommy says, and licks another languid stripe, hot tongue ghosting over the head of Alfie’s cock and Alfie has to stop himself from groaning up at the ceiling. "You don't want to, suit yourself." 

“Fine,” Alfie says, maybe a touch too fast. “Fine, fine, all right, mate. Fine, yeah, we can do that, too. S’fine, I don’t mind.”

“No?”, Tommy says innocently, just to make him say it again, that utter arsehole. 

“No,” Alfie confirms through gritted teeth.

“So, what then,” Tommy says. “What do you want?”

His mouth so fucking close to where Alfie’s cock is lying on his own stomach, red and fat with blood, and it’s _tantalizing,_ is what it is. If Alfie had just one arm at his disposal, he’d grab him by the fucking hair and _make_ him do it, shove his cock into Tommy’s mouth until he choked on it, but he doesn’t and he can’t, _fuck._

“Thought that might be fuckin’ obvious, right, at this very point in time,” Alfie says.

“Really isn’t,” Tommy says, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth again. He puts his tongue against the fleshy part on the inside of Alfie's thigh before biting down, patiently waits for the instinctual twitch to pass, before he starts sucking an actual mark. Alfie hisses through his teeth, trying to keep his leg still, to save some face at least, but Tommy just keeps going until the small muscles in Alfie's thigh are starting to spasm. 

“Fine,” Alfie manages, trying his hardest no to sound as out of control as he feels. “Oh, _hell,_ fine, you, it’s, I want you to, to suck me off, all right? Yeah? Put your fuckin’ mouth-”

“See,” Tommy interrupts and pats Alfie’s thigh, clearly amused. “Was that so bloody difficult?”

“Ohh, _fuck_ you,” Alfie says and then he’s too busy gasping up at the ceiling, head thrown back, because Tommy’s just put his mouth on his cock, sliding down the shaft, hot and tight and almost criminally good. He doesn’t manage the whole thing, never does, and substitutes with his hand, wrapping his fingers around the part he can’t fit into his mouth, which is fucking _fine_ by Alfie, _fucking hell._

Tommy really goes for it after that, sucking him down with enthusiasm, with a satisfied little hum from time to time that makes something wild and animalistic flare up in Alfie’s chest. He keeps lifting his head before having to let it fall back down with a groan, because he has to watch, has to fucking _see_ – any time he catches sight of Tommy’s shock of dark hair and pale shoulders, there’s a flash of arousal searing through him. He keeps fantasizing about putting Tommy in various other positions: Bend him over the table, put him on his back, or on his hands and knees, and fuck him until he’s incoherent. But that’s not going to happen here, now is it?

Tommy keeps going for a while, speeding up and then slowing it down again, because he’s a bastard and Alfie fucking _hates_ him. It’s not enough to get him anywhere near coming, but more than enough to make him feel desperately turned on; enough to make his leg fall to the side, and for his hairline to feel damp with sweat. He’s twisting and twisting his arms around, clutching at the tie first with one hand, then with the other.

They settle into a nice rhythm eventually, almost by accident; one that actually might be going somewhere and has Alfie roll his hips upwards shamelessly, trying and failing to keep fucking quiet about it. He can’t remember ever being self-conscious about this sort of thing, but for some reason, he seems to be hyper-aware of the amount of noise he’s making.

“Oh, hell,” he pants, because this is definitely starting to look promising, and then Tommy pulls _off,_ fuck him, and scrambles up the bed. He doesn't seem unaffected at least, which is some small consolation, because his movements are so shaky he basically falls on top of Alfie immediately, like his arms are giving out. They both moan at the full body contact. 

Alfie's never going to be as flexible as him, it's just a fact of life, but he can't help but draw his legs up, both feet flat against the mattress for leverage, framing Tommy's body. 

“You know,” Tommy says, satisfyingly out of breath, and he's rolling his hips again, grinding down and nudging their cocks together, everything slippery with his own spit. The muscles in Alfie's thighs tense up at the sensation, clamping tightly around him all by themselves. 

“That you're being a terrible fucking tease about this? Oh yeah, mate, yeah… hard as that might be to believe, right, I have noticed that, haven't I.” 

Tommy grins at him, loose-limbed and disheveled, with a very calculating look in his eyes, and for whatever fucking reason, _that_ turns out to be the detail that almost does Alfie's head in; makes him drag his mouth over Tommy’s cheek and down to his neck, pressing kisses as he goes, trying to get the taste of his skin.

“Actually, I was just thinking…” Tommy says. “This is very practical.”

“Ohhh, is it,” Alfie says, preoccupied with licking Tommy’s jaw.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Could just leave you here like this, eh? Come back whenever I feel like a good fuck.”

And… God, Alfie thinks, weirdly amazed at the whole situation, _fuck,_ he’s not going to survive this, he’s going to burn up right here in this bed, but what a way to go. They’re really moving now, grinding against each other without any shame.

“You just fuckin’ wait for it, mate,” Alfie says, breathless. “Works the other way around as well, don’t it. Soon as I get out of here, I’m gonna fix you to this bloody bed and not let you get up for a fuckin’ week.”

“Well, that wouldn’t work,” Tommy says. “Eh? You’d need more than just a tie for that.”

“And why, pray tell, would that be, mate?”

“Because…” Tommy says very earnestly, looking at him with wide, innocent eyes. “You'd have to tie my legs apart as well, wouldn’t you?”

Alfie almost dislocates his own shoulder rearing up at that, crashing their mouths together. Tommy kisses him back hungrily, one hand going to the back of Alfie’s head, clutching at his hair. They make out like that for what feels like a while, slow and messy, pressed close together. 

“Also,” Alfie manages, somewhere in between the kissing. “Just realized, right… you saying I'm a good shag? Yeah? That what you're implying, here?”

“You're all right,” Tommy says and kisses him again. “Adequate,” he adds then, hissing with pleasure when Alfie bites down on his lower lip in retaliation, a lot more gentle than he did the first time around.

“I think,” Alfie murmurs eventually and then pauses, because it just occurred to him that Tommy might be less inclined to oblige if Alfie actually says it out loud. But it's too late anyway, because Tommy pulls back a few inches and stares down on him, a knowing look in his eyes. 

“Yes?” he says, prim and fucking proper, like he's answering the phone or something, even though he _knows_ what Alfie wants, it's fucking obvious. Alfie has no idea why that makes him feel desperately fond, all of a sudden, as well weirdly impressed. Taught him well, he thinks, for all the good it does him now. 

“You start sucking my cock again, mate,” he says, inspiration coming to him out of nowhere, because that's how it goes sometimes. “I'm gonna tell you a secret.”

Tommy’s eyebrow goes up, clearly suspicious that Alfie is just making this up, but intrigued nonetheless. Still up for some negotiations, Alfie thinks, satisfied, one just has to find the right angle, apparently. 

“Could just tell me anyway,” Tommy murmurs softly, not quite close enough to kiss. 

“Could do that, yeah,” Alfie agrees. “But why, yeah, why the fuck would I, hmmm? What would possess me?” 

“Want me to get you there?” Tommy says, “...bet I could get you to just tell me” and fuck, he’s basically purring now; promise and threat at the same time, and Alfie bucks up against his weight, just a little, at the idea of that. Because yeah, God, he absolutely, _absolutely_ could, it’s not like Alfie isn’t fucking _aching_ for it already, anyway.

“Oh, don’t doubt that for a second,” Alfie says, because, well… he isn’t. Sometimes you get the farthest in life by just admitting defeat and getting on with it. “But where’s the fun in that, mate? Hmmm?”

“Mhhm,” Tommy says, clearly thinking about it, before relenting. He kisses Alfie again, quick press of his mouth, before he slides down again, shouldering Alfie’s legs apart a bit more when he gets there, settling comfortably. 

“Right,” he says, licking a slow, terrible stripe up Alfie’s cock _again_ that makes it actually twitch off of Alfie’s stomach this time; Alfie can _see_ that, because he still can’t help but watch. “I’m all ears.”

Which is patently, decidedly fucking _unfair,_ is what it is, because he starts sucking at Alfie’s cockhead after that, right there against Alfie’s stomach, pressing it down a bit and mouthing at it like it’s some type of hard candy, not even touching the rest of his cock otherwise; which makes Alfie feel like he’s on fire, like he’s going to fucking evaporate into thin air at any second, body going tense with anticipation. 

He hasn’t even _thought_ of anything yet, and now he fucking can’t make something up, because he can’t _think_ anymore. He’s trying to keep still but it's impossible, his whole body trembling every which way, with his arms flexing and his breathing gone so harsh he’s basically just groaning at this point. 

“It’s,” he says and then has to lick his lips, trying to focus on something, _anything,_ that isn’t Tommy’s soft mouth on his cock. “I, you, so- you see, it’s-” And then, out of fucking nowhere, he hears himself say, “Wanted to, oh, _God-_ wanted to fuck you since the very first time you came marching into my bakery, right, like you, _fuck,_ fuckin’ owned the place-”

What in the everloving _hell,_ he thinks, taken aback despite all the physical sensation going on, because yeah, that might be true, but _still…_ where the fuck did that even come from? He raises his head, to check for a reaction, and finds Tommy staring back at him, looking equally baffled – by the admission alone, probably, and not so much its contents, because, well. Not like they both didn’t know this already, did they. 

And then Tommy makes a small sound and swallows him down again hungrily, really going for it this time, not trying to hold back, and the wet heat of his pink fucking mouth almost comes as a shock with how viscerally good it feels. He's going to come from this, Alfie realizes, feeling the orgasm gathering in the pit of his stomach, at the bottom of his spine and the hollows of his knees, with an intensity that seems almost worrying, he's going to fucking-

Tommy’s hollowing his cheeks now, sucking at him hard, still going so fucking _slow,_ but it doesn't matter anymore, it doesn't fucking matter at all, because Alfie can fucking feel the tip of Tommy’s tongue dancing over the most vulnerable spot right under the cockhead and throws his head back, and says, “oh _fuck-”_ in a small, panicked voice, like somebody losing their footing on top of a cliff, and then starts to fucking _come._

It seems to go on forever, just wave after devastating wave. He's dimly aware of Tommy holding him down, because, _oh, fuck,_ Alfie’s bucking up so hard he might throw him off. Except Tommy won't be bucked off – on the contrary, he stays exactly where he is, swallowing everything and sucking Alfie through his orgasm. It’s the first time Alfie understands the impulse to bite down on his own arm, which is something Tommy does from time to time, whenever Alfie decides to really put him through it; twists his head to the side and pants against his own biceps, trying to muffle the harsh noises that want to escape his mouth. 

“Fuuuuck,” he manages eventually, still not quite done riding it out. Tommy hums at that, the sound reverberating through Alfie's spine; makes his legs tense up and has him shudder all over again. Tommy pulls off slowly after that, takes some extra time to suck at the oversensitized cockhead for a few endless seconds, until Alfie's breath hitches inside his chest, gentle rasp of tongue feeling almost unbearable now, before Tommy finally stops.

It takes actual fucking effort to lift his head up now, to see Tommy staring up at him with a dazed expression on his face, looking almost confused. He struggles upright, holding onto Alfie’s knees for support and moves up to plaster himself against Alfie’s side, as close as he possibly can be. Looks as much of as mess as Alfie feels right now, face red and damp, with his hair sticking to his forehead. 

Alfie turns, nudges Tommy’s head into the right position with his own forehead and kisses him. He feels like he might float away at any moment, awash with afterglow, a shivery, golden feeling that leaves him boneless and sated. Tommy groans into the kiss and grinds against him, cock a hard line against Alfie's thigh. He tastes like salt, mouth soft and pliable from use, opening up to Alfie's tongue immediately. 

“Go on, then,” Alfie says. “S’your turn, innit.”

“Yeah,” Tommy mutters, except he doesn't try to touch himself, just flings an arm over Alfie's chest and licks over one of the bruises there. He's still rocking against him lazily, obviously hard, but it almost seems like an afterthought. Alfie presses a kiss to his temple, which is all he can currently reach, and then murmurs, “Gonna pay you back for all of that and then some, mate, right, hope you're aware of that.”

Tommy makes an amused sound and says, “m’aware of that, yes” before fitting their mouths together again. Then he adds, a bit muffled, “What’re you gonna do, then?” 

“Hmmmm,” Alfie says, more exhale than actual sound. “Let's see here, right… m’definitely gonna make you work for it next time, yeah.” 

“Is that right,” Tommy breathes and he's finally tugging his own underwear down to mid-thigh and gets a hand on himself. 

“Ohhh, yeah,” Alfie says dreamily. “Enjoy that while you can, yeah, ‘cause you're not gonna touch yourself at all, next time around.”

“No?”

“No. I won't either, right… I'm gonna stay far away from that pretty cock of yours, yeah, and you're just gonna have to come from having something rub up against that sweet spot deep inside of you, hmm?” 

They both know Alfie’s not just making this up, because they’ve managed it before; it usually only works out when Tommy's on top, and even then it takes a long fucking time. It never _fails,_ mind you – you stimulate his prostate long enough, he always ends up spilling all over everything – but it takes ages and always seems to end up somewhere between feeling _good_ and excruciating. (Well. For Tommy it does, at least. Alfie's always having an amazing time.) 

_“Fuck,”_ Tommy says, trembling against him, and he's really moving his hand now, pushing into his own grip with his eyes closed. 

“Cause you always have to make such a scene too, hmm? Keep whining about it every time, even though we both know you fuckin’ love it, right, the longer it takes the better-”

“No, I don't,” Tommy pants immediately, because of course he fucking does. “Oh, _Christ-”_

He fucks into his own fist, snapping his hips maybe five or six times and then he's _done,_ just like that, burrowing down in a clear attempt to hide his moans, so Alfie can't even see that lovely face of his as he comes. 

It seems to take him a long time to calm down again afterwards, hot breath huffing against Alfie's neck. Alfie keeps pressing his lips against the top of his head from time to time, utterly at peace with the world. Eventually, Tommy inhales deeply and then pulls back a little, props his chin on top of Alfie’s chest, looking up at him through his eyelashes. 

“All right?” Alfie murmurs and Tommy gives an almost imperceptible nod, before he says, almost like an accusation, “Are _you_ all right?”

“Ohhh, I’m fine, mate,” Alfie says. “Yeah, never better.”

It’s not entirely true, he realizes that as soon as he’s said it, because his wrists are positively screaming at him, and the initial soreness is probably going to be back in full force as soon as the post-orgasm haze wears off, but he’s… fine. The strange, restless itch that seemed stuck somewhere behind his lungs and made him feel like he wanted to scrape his own skin off with anger and embarrassment is gone, disappeared into thin air. 

Predictably, Tommy narrows his eyes at him. 

“You look _awful,”_ he says irritably, which… look. Alfie’s well aware that this is by no means the kind of pillow talk anybody sane would be looking for or even appreciate, but for whatever reason it makes him feel grateful and stupidly fond. It’s not even fucking _news_ at this point, because yeah… yeah, he probably does look terrible. It’s not like they didn’t come to this conclusion already, however implicit. The only difference is that now, hearing it doesn’t make him feel furiously defensive anymore.

“Yeahhh,” he says easily. “You on the other hand? Yeah? As radiant as ever.”

Tommy makes a face at him – doesn’t protest or try to deny that statement, mind you – and reaches up with one hand, starting to untie the bonds. Alfie expects the process to take a while, thinking Tommy will probably need his other hand sometime soon, except… he fucking doesn’t. Tugs hard with one hand, once, and all of a sudden, the whole entire thing unravels like it never even existed. Alfie tries _very_ hard not to be impressed.

“Boats, huh?” he says, and Tommy raises a triumphant eyebrow at him and doesn’t say anything as he reaches over and deposits his tie on the nearest nightstand. Alfie brings his arms down slowly, carefully. His shoulders and arms are aching, the pain really starting to flare up at the change in position. He exhales, long and deep, air hissing through his nose, and then he starts to sit up with a grunt. Tommy makes a dissatisfied noise at being displaced, but makes some room regardless. Then he stares down at Alfie’s arm wordlessly, eyes huge and full of reproach, and nevermind the fact that he was an active participant in this whole endeavor from beginning to end. 

Alfie leans backwards against the headboard and has a proper look as well. Well, he thinks, that fucking did it. His wrists are a mess – didn’t break any skin, but the parts that were already grazed are scraped completely raw now, and while the bruises were bad before, they’re absolutely _abysmal_ now. If the skin gets any darker, which it very well might, it’ll end up just being black. On the upside, you can’t even tell Alfie’s been tied up _as well_ as being arrested, because it’s literally impossible to make out any kind of difference.

“Stay here,” Tommy says, startling Alfie out of his thoughts, and then he abruptly rolls out of bed, pulls his underwear back up and stalks off. 

“I _live_ here, mate,” Alfie calls after him, but naturally, that doesn't warrant a response.

So he just sits there for a few long seconds, feeling utterly content for some weird reason, before he moves to sit on the edge of the mattress, puts his feet on the floor and starts to roll his shoulders; can’t help but stretch his arms a bit, experimentally, just to check where the worst of the pain sits. 

Tommy ambles back into the room shortly after. He seems appreciative of the fact Alfie is stretching at least, because he stops inside the doorway and just stares at him intently for a moment. Then he blinks, once, before stalking over. Hell, Alfie thinks, but he is a sight to behold; mostly naked without being self conscious about it, still flushed from his orgasm, pale skin practically glowing in the lamplight. 

He's been to the bathroom, clearly, because any evidence of semen is gone, unlike the stickiness still coating the right side of Alfie's pectorals and stomach. 

“Here you go,” Tommy says, but instead of handing him anything he just reaches for Alfie’s arm, like the proprietary little bastard he is, and wraps a cool towel around Alfie’s wrist. It feels amazing, for all it’s practically wet and dripping everywhere. Turns out Tommy even brought two of them, Alfie realizes, because he does the same to Alfie’s other wrist with another wet towel, before awkwardly placing it on top of the first one that’s already been wrapped. 

Alfie readjusts, turns his arm around so everything won’t slide off immediately and rests both arms on top of his thigh, one above the other, forming a lopsided cross. He’s still completely naked, but he honestly doesn’t care.

“Missed your calling, mate, yeah” he says, without looking at Tommy, who slumps down next to him, leaning against his side a bit. “Should’ve been a nurse or something, shouldn’t you.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees very sarcastically. “On behalf of my very caring nature.”

Alfie can’t stop himself from snorting a laugh at that, and Tommy bumps their shoulders together in retaliation. 

“So now what,” Alfie says then. “We just sit here? Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Tommy says, strangely unwilling to take the bait. 

They sit there for a bit in companionable silence, watching Alfie’s makeshift bandages drip on the floor. 

“Can’t wear that tie tomorrow,” Tommy murmurs eventually. “S’creased to fuck.”

“I’m so sorry,” Alfie says, all mock sincerity, and Tommy lightly jabs him with his elbow, before he says, quick and quiet, like he’s afraid somebody might overhear, “You’re all right, though, eh? You’re...” 

“Yeeaahhh,” Alfie says, drawing it out. “Guess I am.”

“Good.”

“Yeah?” Alfie says, trying his level best not to sound pleased and probably failing spectacularly. 

“Fuck off,” Tommy says immediately, predictably. “Also, you’re buying me a new tie.”

“To wear in your fancy new country estate, that you’re apparently planning on acquiring, mate, right?” Alfie says, just to see what happens (because he didn’t forget and now he’ll have to do his own research, won’t he) and Tommy says “fuck _off,”_ again, and bites at Alfie’s shoulder for emphasis. Knowing him, he’s probably going to buy his own tie and send Alfie the bill, which… fine, Alfie thinks. He might allow it, just this once.

They can find a way to ruin the new one, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I'm well aware that this isn't what anybody expected (or wanted), but... the idea got stuck in my head and well, I thought it was fascinating, so. Here we all are.
> 
> (In case anyone is curious, Alfie is reading Edgar Allan Poe's "The murders in the Rue Morgue" in the beginning.)
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
